I am in absolute shock.
Finally, I am up-to-date, with the excellent The Affair and the season two finale, has me in complete disarray.
Which way is up? I can’t breathe. Someone close my mouth. Continue reading
Turn off the heating team, we are almost through the Wintour.
That was a bad joke, I agree.
Anna Wintour, Vogue Grand Dame and the Iron-Fisted Fashion Lady, has lost her grip.
That was the story. That was my 2015 MET Gala takeaway. And that, my friends, is what I want to type about. Continue reading
I love nothing more than a spot of people-watching.
My idea of paradise is either lolling about in a thatch-hut abode above crystal-clear Polynesian waters, or a pervy afternoon, in a spot of window-sunshine, taking in fashion and the female form, deciphering body language and observing couples, while eating eggs.
On the latter pleasure, lately the people-watching has been brought to me and, while ticking off my morning workout, I have had the double pleasure of deep-squatting to the beginnings of what could become the next Great Love Story. Continue reading
In the hour past I’ve watched on as my housemate attached a loose electrical chord to a plug, fitted a light bulb to a pesky fitting and turned an entire corner of our lounge bright with light.
I’d never take the time. And a good many might even wait for a man to do it for them. Continue reading
On Tuesday night, with the sister in tow, I headed to Irene’s Warehouse in Brunswick to become, for the very first time, a Real Hot Bitch.
It was an organised and synchronised dance class with the realest, hottest, bitches from the Brunswick region and it was a helluva piece o’fun.
To the rock pop stylings of not really anyone’s favourite bleached and spiked blonde (Roxette) we learned a choreographed dance that was low on technique and high on dance passion.
Dressed in lycra, g-tards (gee-string leotards), with some dancers donning mullet wigs, we stepped our way through a routine to She’s Got The Look. Continue reading